


Unshackled

by ironcy



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24668266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironcy/pseuds/ironcy
Summary: “You think I’m a fool.” At the very least he seemed to have relaxed his stiff muscles when Andrés released him from the tight grip and didn’t have the threatening gun against his throat. He was now staring up at Andrés (although he wasn’t sure how much he truly saw – he was quite tempted to hold up two fingers and ask him how many there were), shifting slightly in the black suit – it fit him quite nicely, but the cheap fabric must be rubbing against his skin and irritating it and the cravat was so tight Andrés might assume he’d been trying to suffocate himself (then again, maybe he was).Continuation of "Five times Andrés de Fonollosa didn't care plus the one time he did". You can read this without the other, but it does reference it.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	Unshackled

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello - I bring you the continuing story of a cruel Andrés.   
> I'm very insecure about my writing right now and this is not betaed or anything so if at some point it just doesn't sound English anymore - I'm tired.   
> I appreciate any comments and kudos and if anybody has some kind of AU or prompt they'd like me to write for, please drop them - I need inspiration!

“You’d stage a fucking coup d'état, Tokio? Do you want me to tell you what happens with people who dare overthrow their leader? Maybe a bit of education would make you less of an insufferable little cun-“   
The situation felt oddly familiar – Martín choked against the cold metal jammed down his throat, Tokio’s clawlike fingers holding the back of his head so he had no escape.   
“Fuck you, Palermo,” she hissed, as if that would change how little she really knew. Coup d'état! Sure, Tokio was good at using big, lavish words that made her insignificant and downright stupid statements sound somewhat more logical – but it didn’t change she had no clue what she was talking about. Oh, he could’ve told her about real events – 1976, Argentina. The first time he’d experienced political instability of greater scale than in the small neighborhood he lived in – although that too had a fair share of riots and uproars. He could still feel his skin scrape against the hot asphalt of the rundown streets, his hands grappling, fingernails scratching on the ground producing a terrible sound. Martín almost tasted the metallic blood again, as if he’d passed through the rough quarter without paying attention.   
Then again – maybe he could taste the nauseating stench because Tokio had tried suffocating him with her gun, which seemed to have become somewhat of a hobby of hers. Spit big words and attempted murder. She’d only pulled gun back – not before yanking his hair harshly – after his sharp words.   
“That’s quite enough, isn’t it? Chain him up and let the guards deal with him.”  
Ah. Andrés.  
Martín opened his right eye first, exhaling sharply – sometimes he was sure Andrés had forgotten to remove a few small shards of glass. His vision was obstructed – he had expected it to be a bit blurry, fine, he could deal with that – but the dark spots covering most of his eyesight made him squint, recognizing Andrés only for his lean posture and low timbre.   
“What do you mean, let the guards deal with him? They can barely turn their heads, much less attack him – although it would be hilarious. Like a gladiator thrown into a pit of lions. Well, not quite as heroic as a gladiator… But it’d be fun to spectate. Fuck, imagine - 'Please, Gandía, you already took my eyesight, don’t cut off my dick like you promised'.” Her laugh echoed through the room, making his temples throb. Martín recognized her silhouette, she was standing left of Andrés, but the world became blurry at the corners of his sight so he tried turning his head.   
The familiar click of a cocked gun made him stop. “Are you fucking serious?” He snarled when Andrés pressed the gun against his chest.   
Martín felt the cold metal through his black suit. One finger was all Andrés needed to move – it needn’t be on purpose, it could be a simple, illness ridden jitter and he would have fired a bullet straight into his chest. (Not his heart, Martín noticed, Andrés had placed the gun central, but now he was moving it, the steel digging into his neck instead.)   
“Tokio, leave us.” His command demanded immediate obedience and didn’t allow to be questioned – so obviously, Tokio protested, hissing at Andrés like a feral cat before turning to leave the room.   
“What?” Martín moved his head sideways, the gun wasn’t just deadly but uncomfortable, blocking his airways and making him cough, but Andrés only chuckled.   
“What, are you gonna fucking kill me? I dare you,” Martín rasped. His voice was scratchy, as if the shards of glass hadn’t just butchered his eyes but cut through the vulnerable flesh of his throat as well, but Andrés was unphased, as he always was.   
Martín didn’t know if anything could bring him down from that pedestal he was looking down from, completely unbothered, only chuckling in response to his anger. Helsinki had forced him onto a chair and Tokio had wrapped a steel chained around his waist, making it unnecessarily tight. Then she had grabbed his arms and yanked them to his back, provoking a long-drawn growl that masked over the whimper, cuffing his wrists together. And all because of what – a leather suitcase full of stale blueberry muffins that he had bought for a discount because the expiration date had been three weeks ago.   
(He hadn’t planned on eating them, after all.)   
“If I killed you, Palermo…” Martín winced. He was sure Andrés knew that everytime he refused to use his name his heart shattered anew. Because Andrés was denying what they had had – he was denying a decade of his own life and he was denying everything Martín had ever cared for. Martín Berrote was a stain on Andrés’ untouchable and immaculate life and he was erasing it slowly but surely.   
“It would be out of mercy. Isn’t that what you want?” Berlín paused and Martín saw him shift his weight onto his left leg – his expression remained a mystery for a particular stubborn black smear had settled in the center of Martín's sight.   
He’d never been more at Andrés' mercy – like this, chained up, his hands cuffed behind his back, forced on a chair and barely able to recognize Andrés had he not spoken. And Andrés knew – he leaned close to Martín, making his skin crawl like a thousand insects and finally, mercifully, removing the painful steel of the gun from his throat.   
“You haven’t answered my question. You’ve been doing that a lot lately… Not answering. And I’ve had enough of it. You’ll receive due punishment, Palermo, but first… You’ll talk. You’ll finally talk.”   
“And if I don’t you’re gonna shoot me? Come on, Andrés… I don’t give a shit. If I die, there’s one asshole left to ruin this party and I’m sure Tokio would be ecstactic.”   
“We have quite a few things to talk about and more than enough time.” He ignored Martín – he had a habit of doing that, he always had. Only years ago it hadn’t bothered Martín as much – fine, he glossed over his wishes if they inconvenienced him, but he always made it up in some ludicrous way – and Martín was always able to justify it. 

  
“What is there to talk about?” He sounded tired, now, resigned and maybe Andrés had finally found Palermo's boiling point – he was about to spill his guts, he was about to tell him everything he wanted to know.   
Andrés tilted his head. If Martín’s tense face was any indication, he wasn’t comfortable – hell, Andrés wouldn’t have been, either, his waist tied to a chair with a metal chain that dug into his skin, leaving marks and bruises, his hands cuffed so he was forced to arch his back in an unnatural manner, yet still, he faced Andrés, his chin raised, blinking too often. If Andrés leaned closer, he could see small spots in his eyes that reminded him of photos he’d once seen of a cataract. Where the glass had sliced his cornea and damaged the inner lining of his eye.   
“A few things, Martín…” The other seemed to sag into the chair, his expression resigning like his voice had. Andrés had broke him – he’d bulldozed over his defenses and weaknesses, but he would surely be able to build him back up. Make him back into the man he’d cherished – although Andrés couldn’t deny the spark of hot joy that filled him. He was in power, he’d never held more influence over Martín – and it was an attractive sight, seeing him shackled up, his eyes shimmering with the untold hatred and a dark sorrow. The sadness always loomed over him, followed him like a shadow and grabbed ahold of his face when he thought nobody noticed.   
Andrés had seen how quickly his features went from a smile that was so painfully obviously a fraud to a deep scowl – which seemed to have become his natural expression, it had etched itself onto his face.   
“You think I’m a fool.” At the very least he seemed to have relaxed his stiff muscles when Andrés released him from the tight grip and didn’t have the threatening gun against his throat. He was now staring up at Andrés (although he wasn’t sure how much he truly saw – he was quite tempted to hold up two fingers and ask him how many there were), shifting slightly in the black suit – it fit him quite nicely, but the cheap fabric must be rubbing against his skin and irritating it and the cravat was so tight Andrés might assume he’d been trying to suffocate himself (then again, maybe he was). With a small sigh, Andrés leaned forwards to place a hand on Martín’s chest, provoking a small whimper.   
What a delicious and sweet sound it was – Andrés bit down on his lower lip, finding he wanted to hear more of Martín being so very pliant and devote. Worshipping him like he once had, like he was an ancient Greek God worthy of his attention.   
He trailed his trembling fingers across his chest until he found the black tie, loosening the windsor knot with quick hands and listening to the relieved, albeit muffled sigh that escaped Martín’s throat. “Better?” Andrés chuckled softly, his fingers trailing across Martín's stubbly chin. He’d once made a point of always being shaved, his skin so soft Andrés had started teasing him – now it felt calloused and cold and hard as if his face was really becoming the mask he’d been putting on. And Andrés didn’t like that – he didn’t like what Martín had become.   
“I’ll tell you why you think I’m a fool…” He continued, allowing a small smile to spread on his face. “You thought I wouldn’t notice somebody stealing my strongest painkillers from the left side cabinet underneath the sink… You thought if you only took a few once or twice a week I wouldn’t be able to tell?”   
“You didn’t say anything,” Martín said almost defensively, lifting his chin to confront Andrés. That’s the spirit, he mused, his lips curling into an amused scoff. At least he wasn’t being quite as lethargic as he had been for the past few months.   
“That’s true…” Andrés sighed, a long-drawn, almost exasperate sigh as if he were trying to explain why lying was bad to a child, or why you weren’t supposed to have any candy before sleeping or why you had to close after brushing your teeth. Martín scowled and somehow his frown managed to deepen, which made Andrés tut.   
“You’ll age that pretty face of yours if you can’t control your anger issues, my dear Palermo…” Martín was taken aback – Andrés noticed the small flinch, how his gaunt cheeks filled with blood and colored his face red like a Renaissance painting. My dear. He claimed to hate Andrés and yet he still bowed to his every whim… Andrés could work with that.   
“Stop that bullshit,” the shackled man hissed like a feral animal that had been captured, baring his teeth at the other. His anger, paradoxically, made him look healthier, his dull eyes shining, his face bright red instead of the usual paleness. Martín was a coma patient, Andrés had come to realize. A walking corpse, an empty shell – he had come back into his life and Andrés had discovered that like with an empty clam, there wasn’t any life left.   
And obviously, Martín had blamed him! As if he had sucked out the essence of him like some kind of vampire and left him to bleed out. Truthfully, Martín had nobody but himself to blame for his rundown, scruffy appearance and the cold mask he claimed to be his personality. Then again… Martín had always been the weaker of the two, unable to contain his bubbling emotions, they resurfaced much without his say.   
“Projection, Martín. What you’re doing is called projection…”   
“What, did you get a fucking degree in psychology in the Royal Mint of Spain?” He hadn’t lost his humor completely, so Andrés offered him a small smile. “But really, it’s common knowledge…”   
“Alright, Mr. Freud.”   
Andrés chuckled softly and shook his head. “Does this look like a psychoanalysis? I just wanted to talk about the painkillers you’ve been stealing. Admittedly… Petty thievery doesn’t suit you that much. Are you in pain?”   
The sudden change of topic seemed to confuse Martín for he furrowed his brows, gazing at Andrés darkly before averting his sight.   
“Answer me.” Andrés knew he would – Martín would do anything he asked him to, his devoted little puppy. All heart eyes and lovesick, even if he was a bit angry with him at the moment. But Andrés couldn’t help but imagine… His poor Martín, all alone for four years, drinking himself to oblivion every other night – only able to afford cheap champagne. The one that burned more when you coughed it up the next morning than when you’d downed it. He felt something painful tugging at his chest – but most likely it was only his old, thick scars that covered his skin acting up. It wasn’t… Guilt. And it sure as hell wasn’t remorse, for Andrés had nothing to regret. He’d made a choice between his brother and Martín and it had been the right thing to do – Martín’s health? Collateral damage. Happens. Unfortunate, but… Unavoidable.   
“Yes,” Martín breathed, bringing Andrés back into the reality. Andrés saw the glimmer of loathing in Martín’s eyes – well, he supposed he did have all the reasons to hate. He’d been suffering and it was so evident Andrés was sure the rest of the gang had been able to tell even without knowing the former Martín. His Martín.   
“Yes, of course I’m in pain, Andrés,” he said and maybe he’d tried to snap at him, but his voice broke after two syllables and he trailed off, not turning to face Andrés anymore.   
He sighed, an air of annoyance Martín couldn’t possibly miss, tutting impatiently and coaxing Martín to go on with his short speech. Tell me what hurts. He didn’t. Martín stayed silent, focusing the tips of his black leather shoes with that gloomy grey gaze.   
It was Andrés who finally broke the uncomfortable, tense air – Martín was so close to snapping, all he needed was a small push to finally tumble over the edge of the cliff. Andrés noticed his jittery leg – his left leg, jotting up every few seconds only to be forced back onto the ground. Instead, Martín fiddled with his sweaty hands – Andrés was surprised he hadn’t lost sensation, Tokio had been sure to clip the handcuffs as tightly as possible.   
“What hurts?” He asked flatly, realizing what a dud of a question he’d asked. What was Martín supposed to answer? Andrés could see his heart aching. His mind hurting.   
“That medication is for physical pain, Martín. Not for yours… Unless…” Andrés smiled slightly, almost maliciously. “Unless you’re trying to commit suicide. Overdose. Are you?”   
“Stop asking bullshit questions and stop trying to pretend you care. And wipe the creepy ass smile odd your face.” His glare would have been greatly more intimidating if his eyes weren’t brimming with tears – Andrés knew it still hurt Martín to open them for a lengthy period of time.   
“If I’d wanted to commit suicide, I would’ve done so a long time ago. Unfortunately, I’m too much of a coward to blow my brains out – are you satisfied now, eh? I don’t even have the balls to kill myself.” His voice was scratchy and still, he wouldn’t look at Andrés – but he let him stare at the marble ground instead, that seemed to be infinitely more interesting than facing Andrés.   
“Listen…” He heard the small, pitiable gasp when he bent over Martín to cup his face in his jittery hands, his grip firm and unafraid. “You’ve hurt enough. I’ve seen you. I’ve heard you cry at night…”   
Andrés wouldn’t have liked to admit that hearing the gutwrenching sobs had made his chest ache in sympathy. He imagined Martín, slumped over his desk, tears staining and bending the paper the blueprints were printed on, an empty bottle of wine discarded on the ground. His face swoll and was red and blotchy and he was sure nobody could hear him, even pressing a pillow in front of his mouth to muffle the guttural cries that wrecked his thin frame.   
He’d lost so much weight Andrés had wanted to ask if he’d become anorexic – but he’d bit down the comment, just scrutinizing his thin figure, secure in the knowledge if he were to lift his shirt he could count Martín’s ribs. And he’d become so frail – Andrés was afraid he was going to shatter like a glass window if he touched him too roughly.  
His poor Martín. Andrés vowed to kit the broken man – he’d mend him back together.   
He saw the tears roll down Martín’s cheeks and heard him choke back a sob, shaking his head. “No. It’s alright…” Andrés leaned closer and Martín actually flinched, staring at him with his redrimmed eyes, confusion obvious. “I’m undoing your handcuffs, Tokio is too blunt,” he responded, his chest against Martín’s – as if he couldn’t be bothered to walk around the chair. When he’d managed to unlock them – it was quite a task with his jitters and trembles – Martín brought his arms onto his lap, massaging his wrists to let the blood circulate, still swallowing every sob that threatened to rise in his throat.   
Andrés sighed softly, then embraced him.   
Martín was warm, uncomfortably so, and his body went stiff when Andrés touched him – but then he relaxed, limp, his head coming to rest on Andrés’ shoulder almost passively. And he was crying, holding onto Andrés like a drowning man to a lifeline, his fingernails clawing into his red jumpsuit, his grip relentless and tight.   
“Oh, dear…” Andrés let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes. It felt right. He wanted Martín, he wanted his wonderful sweet Martín who stayed at his side through all of the cruelty.   
“I had to make you angry…” He whispered into Martín’s ear. A meagre justification for the pain and humiliation he had put him through… But Martín would forgive him, he was certain.   
“I had to make you feel something… You were so numb, Martín.”   
Andrés could feel each sob wracking Martín until he was only sniffling, seemingly drought of all tears, but still clutching onto Andrés. “That’s a horrible excuse…” He whispered, his voice hoarse and scratchy as if something heavy was lodged deep in his throat.  
“Mh. An excuse nonetheless…”   
Andrés cleared his throat before pulling out of the embrace, touching the wet spot on his shoulder. Martín’s tears. He looked to be embarrassed, holding his head low, occasionally circling his hand – the handcuffs had left red marks on his wrists that were beginning to turn an ugly shade of blue, green and violet.   
“You’re feeling, Martín…”   
“And I don’t like it,” he hissed, wiping his eyes with his sleeved arm, attempting to rub away the red rims and blotches – which obviously did more harm than good, for it made Martín wince and squeeze his eyes shut as if that would drive away the pain.   
He was the personalization of misery. If somebody would have asked Andrés to sketch a broken man – it would have been him. His eyes, sunken in to his gaunt face, the cheek bones pertruding, emphasized by the dark cuts that wouldn’t heal properly – probably because Martín was constantly fondling them, picking the dried scabs off so they bleed anew. The thin body that was so off-putting – Andrés remembered him as a strong man, not as lanky as he was. And then his horrible posture, slumped forwards, his lips parted so he could inhale shallowly, blood staining the corner of his mouth from the chapped skin.   
“Is it because pain is the only thing that doesn’t feel numb? Does it fill your hollow soul up?” Andrés didn’t receive a reply, but he didn’t need it. Now that he had made Martín cry – he was pliant in his hands and could be formed like wet clay, formed to his wishes and desires. What a selfish bastard he was, Andrés thought with an amused chuckle.   
Andrés trailed his fingers down, across Palermo's face – every cut he touched made Martín flinch, opening his mouth, a pained gasp cut off by uncomfortable silence. “Shh,” Andrés hushed him, a pang of annoyance spreading in his chest. Gandía had mutilated his property and he wouldn’t forgive him – but that he would deal with later.   
For now, he was content by feeling Martín’s warm skin against his hands. Hearing his steady, albeit shaky and rapid breaths, watching the way his spotty eyes darted across his face.   
“You’re a fucking son of a bitch.” Andrés chuckled softly and tilted his head, leaning closer to Martín. “Why? Do you think I’m taking advantage of you?”   
“Aren’t you?”   
“You enjoy attention, Martín. You're a needy lit-“  
“I don’t want to hear it.” He was tired, Andrés knew. Martín probably felt like the exhaustion had crawled under his skin and made his limbs weigh hundreds of kilograms each, ready to succumb to the merciful darkness – so he bit back his comment.   
“Rest. You’ll receive punishment, my dear… Tomorrow.” 


End file.
